


First

by waterbird13



Series: Tumblr Fics [481]
Category: The Martian - All Media Types
Genre: Dysphoria, Gen, Hormones, Injury, Recovery, Starvation, Testosterone, introspective, log format, trans Mark Watney, trans man Mark Watney
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 07:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11203215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterbird13/pseuds/waterbird13
Summary: Mark's never the first at anything. He's not even the first trans guy on Mars.But then he becomes the first person alone on a planet.





	First

Sol 8:  
I’m not that competitive a guy, you know?

I mean, all astronauts are at least somewhat competitive. Being at least a little Type A is the only way to make it in the program. But all my psych evals said the same thing: I’m pretty laid back. I’m the harmonizer in a group. I bring people together, rather than reach to take things for myself.

So here’s the dirty little secret: for once in my life, I’d like to be first at something.

I mean, I was the first at everything growing up. My parents only had one kid, after all. First and last and only, so it doesn’t really count. But I wasn’t first in my class. A good student, sure, but not the best, in high school, undergrad, or grad school. I’ve been good but not first my whole life.

Ares III. The name should tell you something. We’re the third crew to go to Mars. Sure, we’re the first at the Acidalia Planitia, but no one’s going to remember that. And I’m the lowest-ranked crew member, the last to step out onto Mars.

I’m not even the first guy from University of Chicago to go to Mars. Not just space, but some schmuck of a UChicago Alum made it here on Ares I. I know, can you believe it? I mean, Beck went to Yale and Johanssen to MIT, they’re common as anything in NASA. But Chicago is a little rarer.

Nope. Can’t even have that.

And yeah. I’m not the first trans guy on Mars. Which is good, you know? When I came out to my parents when I was nineteen, I seriously didn’t think this would ever happen. I saw more news stories about trans people being murdered than I did anything else. The world wasn’t all bleak and horrible, but it wasn’t great. NASA? Give me a break. I thought I’d be lucky to get a job in any boring field here on Earth.

But now, Brock Hansen came to Mars on Ares II, and that record is taken care of. Which, hey, cool. Two trans guys on this desolate planet that’s only seen eighteen people. That’s pretty good. The Ares IV crew has a trans woman on it, I think, Mary something-or-other. That’s not bad odds. Assuming my death didn’t kill the space program and Ares IV takes off and they make it to surface operations with no issues, exactly one eighth of the inhabitants of Mars will be trans folks. Those are odds kid-me would’ve cried over.

Still, I wasn’t the first.

Mars is a bitch like that. I wanted too much, and she gave it to me.  
First man alone on an entire planet. I’ll probably be the first man to die here, too.

Sol 42:  
Back on Earth, I took my T every fourteen days.  
  
NASA saw no need to change that, so, barring some complication caused by space that Beck or I would have hopefully noticed, I was told to continue as normal. My supplies were packed and I took care of what I needed. Beck kept it in mind during the regularly scheduled check-ups the entire crew has to do, but I wasn’t that worried. I know everyone reacts to things differently, but Brock Hansen made it to Mars and back just fine, so I was sure I could do the same.

All was well and good on Hermes, and I had plenty of T for the trip.   
Here on Mars, I didn’t have much. Why would I? I was only meant to be here for thirty-one sols, and space here was at a premium. And now, it’s gone.

Been gone for well over a week now, actually. Of all the things going on around me, this shouldn’t be one that bothers me. I could die in a million ways any second now, and I’m worried about hormones.

Thank God I had my ovaries removed when I was younger. I had this doctor who told me it was unnecessary, that the T would take care of it, but I just wanted them gone. My body probably wouldn’t have figured its shit out this fast, and even if it had the stress and the lower calorie diet might prevent it, but the last thing I want is to deal with myself getting a period. On Mars.

Because as if fighting the depression of getting left behind to die alone on a deserted planet wasn’t bad enough, I should add dysphoria. I need to be at the top of my game. Focused, and functioning.

Soon, my body will start shifting mass around. The only upside to this whole “about to die on Mars” thing is that, by the time that happens, maybe I’ll have already starved enough that it won’t be as obvious.

I left Earth pretty much at the peak of human condition. We all did. NASA doesn’t like sending people into space otherwise. So I had a very athletic body fat ratio, and the shift for me wouldn’t be as bad is it was for some. But it will still be there. And I would notice, that’s for sure.

But with an even lower body fat ratio, say, a starvation body fat ratio, well all bets are off.

Well. That’s one upside, at least.

Sol 349:  
I’ve gotten small enough than I can actually slide the clothes Johenssen left behind underneath my own to keep warm. Tell the truth, they fit me better than mine do.

I try really, really hard not to think about them. When I need an extra layer for warmth, I slip them on and then slip my own clothes on over them as quick as possible.

I’m pragmatic enough that I want to live. If Beth’s clothes are the line between freezing and not, then I’ll take them. If there’s anything I’ve learned on Mars, it’s that every single thing is a useful tool and I can’t let my damn sensibilities get in my way.

I farmed in my own shit, for God’s sake. Wearing Johanssen’s clothes should not be where the line is drawn.

Honestly, I’m just mostly glad that there’s only one mirror on Mars, a tiny little thing for shaving, and I destroyed it months ago. My beard’s still growing, but not that well anymore. And NASA isn’t exactly around to keep me to mission perimeters. Let it grow.

Mission Day 688:  
Okay, so I admit. Yesterday, my priorities were ordered somewhere around “ribs ribs ribs shower food.” Beck looked at my ribs—and the rest of me—and gave me a sponge bath, which he told me was the best I can expect for a few days. The food was sorely disappointing, an IV paired with apparently super-nutritious broth, but hey, it wasn’t multivitamins and potatoes, so I took it.

Then I slept. Turns out, escaping Martian atmosphere at twelve Gs really wipes you out.

Today Beck puts me through another check-up—this is apparently going to be a daily thing now, for a little while—and I ask him about my T.

The news is not great.

Apparently neither Beck nor NASA are comfortable introducing hormones in a guy almost seventy pounds underweight with who knows what else wrong with him. Beck looks sympathetic about it, tells me they’re working on it, talking it out and trying to figure out how to do it safely, but for now, it has to be a no.

Fuck you, Mars. Off that goddamn planet and it’s still fucking me over.

On the bright side, I get a real meal pack. Well, half of one, but hell, before they ran out altogether, I’d been eating less than a third of one every day. Goodbye minimal calorie count.

It’s supposed to taste like chicken. It tastes like cardboard.  
Cardboard’s never tasted better.

Mission Day 720:  
Beck weighed me in today and I’ve regained twenty pounds. That’s it, that’s the goal.

I still look—well, like a guy they pulled off Mars after a year and a half of starvation rations, but who perhaps has had a few meals since then. But the sores are almost healed and even my gums are getting better. My ribs are healed. My muscles are all probably severely damaged, and we won’t know for sure until we’re in Earth gravity and I can get proper rehab. My teeth look terrible, despite my best efforts, and I’ll need a dental surgeon to sort that shit out. Maybe some cosmetic dentistry. From the sounds of it, NASA wants to trot me out in front of the press, so they’ll probably pay for it. And despite my best attempts with multivitamins, it turns out they do not solve all ills. I’ve got a hole host of deficiencies Beck is still working on correcting.

But I gained twenty pounds.

Right now, those twenty pounds put me in the territory of desperately, frighteningly skinny. But not dying. And right now, my body is just sucking them up, necessary weight. But I’m not allowed to work out. I’m not allowed T. Soon, the oncoming weight will go to my stomach and hips, and I’ll end up with a very different appearance than what I started with.

But twenty pounds. Twenty pounds and no complications, that was the magic number Beck and the assholes at NASA worked out.  
Beck fidgeted a lot. “We don’t know how your body will handle this,” he’d said like eight times.

I understood. No one’s ever quite tried this before, and that makes doctors very nervous. But I want my T.

So I got it, and unfortunately that got my every third day appointments with Beck right back up to daily, at least for the time being. I think if he had his way, he’d be checking on me every half hour, but NASA is taking full advantage of our extra time in space and is sending a busy enough science schedule to keep him out of my hair.

Mission Day 780:  
Can you believe it took them this long to let me into the gym? Worry-worts, the bunch of them.

But at least I’m allowed in now. For brisk walks and yoga, which isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but NASA seems to be sure dramatic irony will bite us in the ass and I will survive Mars only to keel over from something innocuous on the way home. So brisk walks it is.

It really, really sucks when Johanssen runs her six minute mile on the machine next to mine.

I’m back up to thirty pounds under my original weight from the weigh-in I had right before we went to Mars. It’s still concerning, and I still look thin, but I’m eating ordinary rations and Beck is now convinced most of my deficiencies will resolve with a proper diet. Mostly, the weight is muscle, because that’s all gone, and I want it back.

Obviously, the solution is yoga and brisk walks.

Baby steps.

Mission Day Earth:  
The mission is over. It’s weird to not have days, to not be living on a space craft.

NASA is still handing me schedules for every moment of every day though. So there’s that.

The media is going absolutely fucking insane over us. Luckily, I get to avoid all that, because NASA has stuck me in an isolated rehab facility where my guests are limited to family and NASA personnel. Which means I’ve seen Venkat Kapoor for about an hour. After he left, Mindy Park came in, and let me tell you, it is trippy to meet the woman who realized you were alive and then space-stalked you for more than a year. I owe her a beer. Or ten.

And then my parents came.

Yeah. I haven’t seen my parents in almost three years. I cried a little bit.

It was a hug fest all around, and they both looked like they were afraid to break me. I don’t blame them. I left Earth able to pick my Mom up—I know because I tried it—with ease. She probably couldn’t pick me up right now, I’m getting better, but in the early days after Mars, she could have.

They get kicked out after a few hours by my physical therapist, whose sole job it is to make sure I can walk on Earth again.

I ask if she can give me my six pack back. She just kind of stares.

Well, we’re going to have a lot of time for her to start getting the Mark Watney sense of humor.


End file.
